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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112343">last true mouthpiece</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterleveldropping/pseuds/waterleveldropping'>waterleveldropping</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>jonelias week 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Altar Sex, Cock Warming, Confessional Sex, M/M, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:02:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,072</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterleveldropping/pseuds/waterleveldropping</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon’s eyes flick wildly from one side to another, the statues of Mary with their eyes open and watching, the murals and painting on the walls all turning their gaze to see him, all of him. </p><p>---</p><p>Jon seeks forgiveness before a different god. Elias does not let that misstep go unpunished.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>jonelias week 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Jonelias Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>last true mouthpiece</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for the prompt "statements/religious themes"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s his fifth or sixth time driving down the same road when he finally notices it: <em> Faithful Refuge Church. </em>Still standing after all these years, looking the same as it did back when Jon’s grandmother dragged him to it the Sundays during his childhood. </p><p>The Basira-mandated weekend work holiday is going better than he imagined being forced to return to his hometown would. Get himself out of his head before their trip to Ny-Ålesund, despite his protests that now is no time for a vacation. Which is exactly why he should take one, she refuted, and a few days later he was on the train down north. </p><p>The beginning of October brought changing leaves to Bournemouth, the abundance of trees meaning that when the rains fell as they so often did, the roads and sidewalks ended up in a crunchy, sodden blanket of yellow and brown.</p><p>Church lights reflected out of the large stained glass windows and fell onto the piles of wet leaves that bordered the sidewalk leading up to the door of the church. Jon shivers under his coat as an early-evening gust hits him, quickly making for the doors.</p><p>It’s almost identical to how he remembers it, albeit a bit smaller, but he attributes that more to his maturation over the years and less any changes in the church’s actual size. There’s few people inside- he figures he’s of the minority of individuals who would make the trip to a small church right after a nasty storm and at this time of day. </p><p>“Good evening, sir.” says a woman’s voice. She’s dressed in plain black garb and a habit, and standing so close to him Jon wonders how he didn’t hear her approach. </p><p>“Ah, uhm, hello.” Jon responds. “Just… stopping in.” Stupid. He’s lucky she doesn’t recognize him, she must be new here.  </p><p>She gives him a nod and smile that borders on sympathetic, and Jon takes a seat in a pew near the confessional. The warm light and familiar scent of incense does little to calm his nerves. It smells the same as it did in his childhood. </p><p>He’s never been religious. His grandmother had been, and if you counted her forcing him to service every Sunday rain or shine, then maybe he used to be. Jon had gone when his grandmother took him, but he didn’t exactly have a choice, she wasn’t about to leave him home alone. For much of his childhood his grandmother would droll on about her beliefs, and by the time Jon was old enough to lock his door and force her to go to services alone, he had learned to tune it out.</p><p>He never felt like he belonged in these halls. The services were boring and dull, and the other kids who he was meant to be friends with weren’t exactly friendly. They’d tease and bully him about his appearance: he didn’t exactly look great in the second-hand dresses his gran forced him into, even when his hair was long and his features soft. </p><p>After everything that had happened, he felt like he belonged even less now.</p><p>It’s embarrassing to come crawling back like this. Jon doesn’t know exactly what made him turn onto the dirt road the church was off of, but something in the back of his mind nags at him. Maybe if he can be welcomed back into the eyes of this god, the other one will be chased away. It’s a stupid thought, but what else does he have? </p><p>The door to the confessional opens and a young woman steps out of it, no older than twenty four, twenty five. She’s just graduated from university and moved back in with her parents. Her shaking hands hurriedly wipe tears from her eyes, and she hopes no one will comment on her red face at the party she’s heading to. She’s recently become predisposed to taking her anger out on her younger brother, and had been repenting about striking him the other day. </p><p>Jon blinks himself back to the present. He hadn’t meant to know any of that. </p><p>He steps into the confessional.</p><p>The air in the dark wooden box lingers with the smell of the woman’s perfume, mingling with the indisputable smell of sweat. Jon swallows, balling his fists into the cold fabric at his knees. </p><p>There’s probably no way this will make a difference, but something in him yearns to try. He so badly wants someone to tell him he’s still himself.</p><p>“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” he begins, his tongue like lead in his dry mouth. “I have been absent from the church for some time now, and am sorry that my first reintroduction must be in this way.” </p><p>“As long as you are willing to have faith in God, none of these worries shall impede you.”</p><p>The voice comes through the divider, calm and sure, and Jon swallows as he tries to ease his nerves. He’s wondered how to phrase his confessions the entire drive here. The difficulty arises, prevents him from continuing until he asks, quietly: “It would be a great help if you would ask me to confess, father.” </p><p>“You are placing your trust in God, and a merciful father who seeks to forgive you. Speak freely your tresspasses.” The voice is so even and still, it serves to quell some of the nerves residing in his chest. </p><p>“I’m afraid I have made a grave misstep somewhere in my life,” Jon begins shakily. “I can think of no other rationale for the position I’ve found myself in these past few years.</p><p>“I barely feel like I deserved the job to begin with-- there are people far more qualified. I know now why I was chosen, but it doesn’t change the fact. I’ve been unjust to my employees by no fault of theirs, only my own. I was meant to protect them all but I failed so early on, and those of them who are still alive despise me, and I know deep down they have a right to. </p><p>“I want so badly to be free of this burden. All of this is so far away from what I signed up for. I’m not ready for what I may do next. I feel my control slipping with every new statement I take.</p><p>“Recently, I have been… <em> feeding </em> on victims without their consent. I don’t want to, but I can’t bring myself to stop. If I don’t <em> Know </em> then I dwindle, like I’ve been starving myself for days. Eating food does nothing to fill the emptiness of not Knowing. Even now, miles away from London, I feel myself growing weak.”</p><p>“Then come home,” says the voice on the other side of the partition. It is not the same voice that spoke to him mere seconds before.</p><p>Jon feels the blood stop cold in his veins. “What did you say?”</p><p>“I said come home, Jon. Stop acting out like a child.”</p><p>No.</p><p>“Did you really think some faux-pious clergyman was going to be able to absolve you?”</p><p>No, no, no, <em> no. </em></p><p>Elias’s voice is impossibly coming from right next to him, just on the other side. </p><p>“There is nothing left for you but <em> me, </em>Jon. You and I and our duty to our ever-watching god.” </p><p>There is no way, there’s physically no way for him to be here. Elias Bouchard has been in prison in London for <em> months </em>, he can’t be in Bournemouth, he can’t be here in this booth talking to him. </p><p>“Clammed up now, have you?” the man on the other side sighs in Elias’s voice. “You were so willing to confess everything to a complete stranger mere seconds ago. Not feeling as talkative around me?”</p><p>Jon can barely swallow, let alone clear his throat enough to speak. Elias continues.</p><p>“Slightly a waste to come all the way out here. Was it to distance yourself from the institute? Oh, Jon,” pity seeps into his voice. “You know you’ll never have distance again; you’ll be under his gaze for as long as you live.” </p><p>“And if I blind myself?” Jon rasps, finally finding his voice.</p><p>“You won’t.” Elias states.</p><p>“I could.”</p><p>“You <em> won’t. </em>”</p><p>Now, he’s beginning to hyperventilate. </p><p>“Really though, Jon. You genuinely thought your uncertainty wouldn’t go unnoticed by me? Or rather,” the next words Elias speaks are right next to Jon’s ear, he can feel the hot breath. “Unpunished? Come now.” </p><p>Jon slaps his hands to either side of his face in an attempt to get away from the sound, hot tears falling onto his trousers and staining them darker in small spots. The sickeningly sweet scent of the altar incense invades the small box and makes Jon’s throat close, choking him. It no longer feels familiar. Now it's foreign, alien to him, and permeating everything.</p><p>Jon’s face burns, the words ringing in his ears despite his attempts to ward them off and the smooth voice drowns him in sensation.</p><p>“No worldly penance would be enough to acquit you, Jon. But I suppose we have to start somewhere.”</p><p><em> No, </em>Jon’s mind screams at him. He so badly wants to run, to get away, get back into his tiny rental car and drive all the way back to London, but he knows it's pointless. There is nowhere he could go that Elias wouldn’t find him, that much was clear now. </p><p>Wave after wave of fear washes over Jon. He’d covered his mouth and nose with his hands to prevent from inhaling any more incense, but it only serves to cloud his mind and dizzy him further. There is something to Elias’s voice that is slipping through the bite in his words. Something that scares Jon more than the bite itself. Because, in a way, Jon knows everything Elias is saying is true. Nothing he does will help him now. Attempting to absolve himself only makes his penance more severe. </p><p>The voice on the other side hadn’t stopped speaking. “Let’s see. Ten ‘Hail Mary’s’ is out of the question. But I don’t suppose you’d be averse to being on your knees? It’s the very <em> least </em> you can do, after all.”</p><p>Jon presses his thighs together tightly on the cold wooden seat, and waits for Elias’s next words, terrified. </p><p>“The god we serve isn’t entirely cruel, Jon. Not if you feed it properly. I don’t exactly intend to crucify you for your wrongdoings, but, well,” Elias muses. “You could start with some basic acts of service to show how very sorry you are.” </p><p>Elias pauses. “Unless… you aren’t sorry?”</p><p>Jon’s breath catches. Elias knows. He has to know he sees everything he can read minds he--</p><p>“Oh, Jon.” comes the next phrase, sweet as honey, dripping with venom. “You’re so warm, aren’t you? You’re getting off on this.”</p><p>Jon squeezes his damp eyes shut and wills the wetness between his legs away with everything in him. </p><p>“Are you really so pathetic for that to be all you need? For me to tell you you’ll never be forgiven in the eyes of any god, that all those horrible things you think about yourself are true?”</p><p>Jon’s fingers feel like pins and needles. A whimper escapes out from under his shaking hands.</p><p>Then comes the next question, the one he’s dreading. “Are you hungry?” Elias asks.</p><p>Jon nods, painfully slow.</p><p>“Why don’t you come over to me, let me help you fill up,” he says. “Consider it part of your penance. The beginning of it, at the very least.”</p><p>Jon didn’t think his body capable of moving, but as soon as Elias proposes the act, he’s stood up and moved to the opposite side of the confessional. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, Elias <em> can’t </em> be here, and yet he is. Jon opens the small wooden door and Elias is sat on the dark wooden bench in priest robes. He doesn’t even look out of place. Elias welcomes Jon with open arms, and Jon can do nothing but receive communion. </p><p>Elias’s hands rest on Jon’s shoulders and push him slowly down, onto his knees on the hard floor of the confessional booth. Here, they’re so very close, Elias’s long legs box Jon in as he pushes up Elias’s robes with shaking hands, feeling the pit in his stomach grow- from hunger or anticipation, he doesn’t know. </p><p>“Get to work, Jon.” Elias says, staring down at him. “You have so much to make up for.”</p><p>Elias gives a full-body shudder when Jon pulls his cock out of his pressed trousers. His hands stroke the back of Jon’s head, urging him closer until Jon takes him in his mouth, Elias’s hand holding him and willing Jon to take him further and further until Elias’s cock hits the back of Jon’s throat and tears well at the corners of his eyes. </p><p>Then, the door on the other side of the confessional opens, and someone steps into the side Jon was on mere moments ago. Jon chokes and tries to pull away, the shock of being discovered alarming enough to dispel whatever spell Elias had held over him. </p><p>With the hand that’s not holding Jon in place, Elias brings a finger to his lips, registering the pleading look Jon gives him from between his legs to memory, his brown eyes blown wide with panic. The sight is almost enough for Elias to rock his hips into that warm mouth, but he refrains. He, at least, has some self-restraint to speak of. </p><p>The man’s voice begins to filter through the divider, small and meek. Elias speaks as calmly as he did to Jon, urging the other to confess to him. </p><p>Confessions, Jon laments, seem to serve a very similar function to statements. Jon’s stomach dips as the man describes horrible acts in as measured of a voice as he can keep. Jon shuts his eyes tight, tries to deny how good hearing the deplorable scene makes him feel, but he’s starving, and he can’t hold out forever. </p><p>Eventually, the only thing stopping Jon from devolving into pathetic whimpers is the firm hold Elias has on his hair, cautioning Jon about what will happen if he so much as makes a sound. Jon’s hands are tight in Elias’s bunched-up robes and the stranger continues to confess his sins, filling Jon up until his breathing is so uneven that he hiccups, drunk on feeling and fullness.</p><p>By the time Elias absolves the man and he steps out of the confessional, Jon is barely even in the present moment. His jaw <em> aches, </em>the weight on this tongue muddling any other thoughts that try to push their way into his mind. </p><p>Soon enough, someone else steps into the booth. Followed by another shortly after. And two more after that. </p><p>It has to have been a full hour since Jon began kneeling at Elias’s feet, his knees numb with soreness, the wetness between his thighs unbearingly warm. His jaw lost feeling a bit ago, and when Elias allows Jon to pull off of him, Jon drools into his own lap before he remembers what it feels like to close his mouth. He’s so <em> full, </em>every part of him feels it, but he knows his stomach is as empty as it was when he stepped into the chapel hours ago. </p><p>Elias cups Jon’s face in his hand after tucking himself back into his robes. </p><p>“Wonderful, Jon. Are you ready for your real penance?” he coos. </p><p>“What are you trying to do to me?” Jon asks, his voice coarse and rough in his throat, though the hint of panic still slips through.</p><p>“Only what you came here to do, Jonathan. I’m going to absolve you of your sins of uncertainty before our god.” he smiles down at him. </p><p>When they step out of the dark confessional, Jon is only slightly surprised to see the church doors closed and most of the lights off. The pews and altar are illuminated only by the various candles and stained glass that seems to glow. The colors make Jon’s eyes hurt and when he tries to focus on the images in them, but the fractals blur together until he feels queasy. </p><p>Elias leads Jon by the hand down the middle of the pews to the shining white altar, the porcelain slab bordered by perfect rows of candles and flowers. </p><p>“You must be thirsty after all that,” Elias remarks, reaching behind a podium and producing half a bottle of communion wine. “I’m afraid we don’t have any glasses, but that shouldn’t matter. Open wide now.” Jon parts his lips, letting Elias press the cold glass to his mouth. </p><p>He’s never been particularly keen on wine, but this <em> stings </em>his throat as he drinks it, the feeling so much that he sputters and pulls away, coughing. “That is- foul.” he says between coughs. “Are you sure that’s wine?” </p><p>In response, Elias steps closer, brings the bottle up to Jon’s lips again in spite of Jon’s protests. Elias holds him still as he tilts the drink back up, and holds it there until Jon’s downed all of it, his once empty stomach now uncomfortably full.</p><p>“Lie down, Jon.” Elias says, gesturing to the altar. </p><p>At this point, Jon is honestly just thankful for the opportunity to stop standing, his legs feel like they might give out any second.</p><p>Elias sits down next to Jon’s supine body, removing the brown rosary around his neck and reaching for Jon’s hands. It’s the same as any other rosary, but boasts an open eye symbol instead of a cross.</p><p>Elias positions Jon’s hands to hold it in the traditional pose, his closed fists pressed to one another with the beads snaked around them, but winds it around Jon’s wrists a few times for good measure. Then he pushes Jon’s hands above his head. </p><p>Jon watches as Elias removes his robes slowly, the feeling of seeing and perceiving making him feel like this is all very normal. That his boss is going to take him on an altar at his childhood church, and he’s going to be saved for it.</p><p>“Won’t our patron not agree with us desecrating their church like this?” Jon asks.</p><p>“Not if they get to watch.” Elias replies, positioning himself over Jon and sliding Jon’s trousers and underwear off. The porcelain is unpleasantly cold against his skin. </p><p>“Now Jon,” Elias says, pulling Jon’s hips closer to him and lining himself up with Jon’s cunt. </p><p>“Do you wish to repent before our god?” Elias’s eyes flick up to meet Jon’s with alarming finality. </p><p>“Yes,” Jon says, because there isn’t anything else to say.</p><p>Seems as if he drastically underestimated how good being penetrated would feel after almost an hour of being made to wait- because Jon all but screams when Elias pushes into him. His rapid breathing returns in full force as Elias hooks one of Jon’s legs over his shoulder and begins to fuck him, and this time he can’t even attempt to even it out.</p><p>“There you are,” Elias says, leaning over Jon. “Open your eyes, Jon. Drink everything in as you’re meant to.” </p><p>Jon whimpers, his eyes opening despite himself, and Elias’s form over him is bracketed on all sides by the overwhelming, all encompassing feeling of being watched, seen, observed. Jon’s eyes flick wildly from one side to another, the statues of Mary with their eyes open and watching, the murals and painting on the walls all turning their gaze to see him, all of him. </p><p>He’s drowning, smothered by the focus of absolutely every eye in the room on him, including Elias’s. </p><p>“Repeat the Act of Contrition to me. Let our patron hear you speak your forgiveness so we may absolve you.” Elias commands, watching Jon’s tears fall onto the porcelain. </p><p>And though he had never said them before, Jon knows the words perfectly. </p><p>“Ceaseless Watcher, I am so sorry for my sins with all my heart.” he chokes out. “In choosing to do wrong, and failing to do good, I have sinned against you, you whom I should revere and love above all things.” </p><p>He feels his climax building. In horror, he continues. “I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.” </p><p>The end of the prayer is barely above a sob. “In our Watcher’s name, my God, have mercy.” he comes around Elias’s cock, pathetic and pious all at once.</p><p>“Yes! Yes, Jon-- this is the you our Watcher wishes to see!” Elias exclaims, still working into him. “Perfect, you did <em> perfectly </em> ,” he breaths incredulously. “Just like that, <em> oh </em>--” Elias’s hip rock into him a few more times before he buries himself inside Jon, fills him even further. </p><p>Jon’s expression scrunches as Elias all but collapses on top of him, still inside. He eventually pulls out, leaving Jon empty and sore. </p><p>Elias wipes the tears from Jon’s eyes before they even have a chance to trail down his hot cheeks, and presses a long kiss to Jon’s lips. For a minute neither of them move.</p><p>Then Elias pulls away, looks into Jon’s eyes and recites, perfectly:</p><p>
  <em> “Deus, Pater misericordiárum, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> qui per mortem et resurrectiónem Fílii sui </em>
</p><p>
  <em> mundum sibi reconciliávit </em>
</p><p>
  <em> et Spíritum Sanctum effúdit in remissiónem peccatórum, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> per ministérium Ecclésiæ indulgéntiam tibi tríbuat et pacem.” </em>
</p><p>Jon understands it all, but Elias pauses, then says in English, “And I absolve you from your sins. Blessed are those whose sins have been forgiven, whose transgressions have been forgotten. Rejoice under the gaze of the Watcher, for he sees all, and is all.”</p><p>They say, as one, “Amen.” </p><p>Jon fades into sleep shortly after. </p>
<hr/><p>It is still nighttime when Jon wakes. He’s alone. </p><p>Still laid on his back on the altar, but his clothes have been pulled back on, as well as his hands freed from the rosary. He stands, head foggy and threatening to fall off his shoulders. Taking note of his surroundings, he notices none of the paintings hold his gaze any longer, and most of the candles have burned out, draping the large, empty chapel in relative darkness. </p><p>Recollection does not come easy to him. Standing no easier. He braces himself on the altar, clean and cold aside from the marks that spread out from under his warm hand where his grip is. Eventually, Jon finds his way to the small bathroom behind the altar, and squints at himself under the fluorescent that buzzes to life when he flips the switch on the wall. </p><p>He’s a wreck, to put it lightly. Dark hair stands out of place in every direction, and his eyes, red and puffy, boast intense dark circles. Splashing cold water on his face makes him aware of how thirsty he is and how dry his mouth feels, and he cranes his head to drink what he can from the tap. </p><p>Immediately, he regrets it. </p><p>Bile rises in his throat the very second he swallows the first gulp, and Jon rushes to the toilet, emptying what little his stomach contains into the bowl. His hands shake violently as he grips the side of the toilet, and he dry heaves a few times before trying to bring himself to stand. He almost falls back onto his ass from putting pressure onto his knees. </p><p><em> “Shit </em>, shit,” he winces, supporting himself on the toilet bowl as he pulls himself up to stand. He flushes the toilet and washes his hands, rinsing his mouth out, but not making the mistake of swallowing any water again, lest he repeat the process.</p><p>God, he needs to get out of this damned church. Overstaying his welcome is putting it lightly. </p><p>The parking lot is empty when he steps out into the cold air. He barely finds his car by the light of his dying cellphone’s flashlight. When he’s sat inside and started the ignition, it takes his tired eyes a few seconds to focus on the numbers on the dashboard. </p><p>Four in the morning. </p><p>“Christ,” Jon sighs, rubs his face with his hands. Okay. He only has to get to the hostel. He can do this. </p><p>Halfway down the barely-lit sideroads, Jon’s phone lights up with a text message notification. </p><p>UNKNOWN NUMBER</p><p>4:11 AM</p><p>“Our patron does not wish the sinner to die</p><p>but to turn back to him and live.</p><p>Come before him with trust in his all-seeing mercy.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t sleep much that night, to say the very least. <br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im not religious let alone catholic so i had to do a lot of research to appropriate as much horny stuff as i could. s/o to the do not archive server for spurring me on, this wasn't even meant to be smut originally</p><p>thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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